9

 

 

 

 

December 19, 1961

Mr. Stevenson says it’s easy to be obedient when you want what is happening to you. He’s right. When he calls my name in that special way, something flips on inside me, and I am instantly his slave girl, ready and eager to do his bidding.

I know it’s a game. I mean, it can never be more than that. Yet, sometimes it feels more real—more vivid—than anything else in my life. Sometimes, when I’m just doing something mundane, like cooking at the stove, or playing with the children, or doing needlepoint while Frank sits beside me watching the game, I wonder if they can tell that something has changed inside me. I wonder if I look different somehow. If I’ve been marked in some secret way by Mr. Stevenson and the life I live in secret away from home.

Mostly I can put it aside. I have to. I am a mother first, of course, and I have a duty to my family. But when I step into the office each morning, something happens. I can almost feel it as if it were a physical thing. Easy-going, innocent Livvie becomes wanton sex slave Olivia.

Once I peel out of the confining girdle, remove my bra, put on my sexy panties and garters, and add a dash of red lipstick, the transformation is complete. When Mr. Stevenson arrives, I bring him his coffee and wait patiently for his orders for the day. Most of them concern the running of the office, but usually something sexy is thrown in.

He might have me bend over his desk so he can inspect some part of me. That makes me blush like crazy, but at the same time, it excites me to the point that I actually tremble. The other day he had me lie back against his desk, my legs spread. He raised the hem of my dress and put his hand in my panties. His fingers were like fire probing against me, turning me to jelly with desire.

Invariably, he brings me to climax when he touches me like this. I’ve tried doing it myself at home in the bathroom, but I can never even come close to what he does. He’s so casual about it, but I can tell he’s excited by my squirming and moaning. I used to be so embarrassed when I made involuntary noises, but Mr. Stevenson has assured me it’s perfectly natural, and a sign of my submission and surrender. I like that about him—he never judges me, though I guess if he did, that would certainly be a case of the pot calling the kettle black.

I have to admit, as strange as it sounds to my own ears, I love the spankings the best—the ones where he uses his bare hand. Yes, it stings like the dickens, but afterward, I’m so aroused he barely has to touch me before I’m ready to climax. I think he’s turned me into a nymphomaniac, but I don’t even care. I can say it here where no one but me will ever see—I love every second of it.

The other day his hand was in my panties and I was so close, just about to climax, and the dang phone rang.

Normally, I screen Mr. Stevenson’s calls, but he just reached over with his free hand and picked up the receiver. “James Stevenson,” he said as calm as you please, as if he didn’t have his other hand in his secretary’s underpants.

I was embarrassed, to say the least. The sexy spell he’d woven around me vanished, and I felt ridiculous lying among his papers with my legs splayed and dress hiked up.

I started to sit up but he pushed me back down and mouthed the words, “Stay there.” Turning his attention back to the call, he said, “And a good morning to you, George. I’m so glad you called. Are you still able to make our meeting?”

As he listened to George’s response, he resumed stroking me, and I had to put a hand over my mouth to keep from moaning aloud.

“Excellent,” he continued. “Olivia and I will be ready for you. I think you’ll be quite pleased. Good, good. See you at eleven. Goodbye.”

An 11:00 meeting that involved me? This was the first I was hearing about it. I presumed he was talking to George Vanier, a college friend of his he sometimes met for lunch. Why would he be having something so formal as a meeting that involved his secretary with someone who wasn’t even a client? Unless he was going to become a client, and he wanted me there to take notes about whatever the issue might be.

I completely lost my train of thought as Mr. Stevenson pressed my thighs apart and thrust a finger inside me. It wasn’t long before I was again on the brink of a climax. Then I heard him say, “Today I’m going to test your obedience, slave girl. Do you wish to obey me?”

“Yes,” I gasped, not really grasping the import of what he was saying, totally focused on my own pleasure and release.

“Good girl. Then you may come now.”

A few more of those perfect strokes and I was done for. I moaned and pressed against him, shuddering with pleasure.

I lay there a while, sprawled against his desk and trying to recover my composure when Mr. Stevenson said, “George Vanier is aware of our, uh, unique arrangement.”

That got my attention.

“Excuse me?” I sat up, flustered, scattering his papers as I did so. I pushed down my dress and wrapped my arms around my torso, the warm pleasure of the orgasm receding fast. “What did you say?”

“I believe you heard me, but I’ll elaborate. George is familiar with, and quite interested in, this kind of lifestyle. He shares our predilections, though he’s never had the opportunity to experience a relationship based on dominance and submission firsthand.”

I had pulled myself somewhat together, but still couldn’t quite get a handle on what Mr. Stevenson was saying. “You told him about what we do here?” I squeaked, shocked. “You and me?”

Mr. Stevenson smiled. “Not all the specifics, no. But he does understand that you are not only my secretary, but also my submissive slave girl, and he’s very excited that I’ve invited him for an, uh, demonstration of your obedience.”

He moved toward me and placed his hand on my shoulder as he looked into my eyes. “If you refuse, I’ll cancel the meeting, of course. If I have overstepped, I apologize. I had believed you were far enough along in your training to be obedient in front of a witness. Do you think you can do that, Olivia? Submit to me in front of another man?”

“No,” I said flatly. Was he stark raving mad?

Mr. Stevenson pressed his lips into a thin line of disapproval, and I could see the disappointment in his eyes. I hated to be the cause of those emotions, but what did he honestly expect?

He didn’t give up, though. “I’m not asking that you submit in any overtly sexual way to Mr. Vanier. It’s more of a demonstration of your obedience to me. I have been so proud of your progress. I suppose I wanted to share the pride with another—to display your submission. I had hoped you would be ready, but again, I apologize if I’ve overstepped.”

I bit my lip, my resolve weakening, my outrage melting away. Mr. Stevenson must think a lot of me to believe I’m to the point in my training that he wants to show me off. While it was risky to let a third party into our secret world, it would be quite exciting and daring to show another person, another man, what we shared. And I actually found it rather touching that Mr. Stevenson seemed so genuinely eager to have a witness. He wasn’t ashamed of what we were doing. He was proud of it, and of me.

“I see what you’re saying,” I finally ventured. “I have to admit I’m kind of nervous about it, but I trust you. If you think it’s the right thing, then…”

He smiled broadly, something he rarely does, and I found myself smiling back. “Thank you, Olivia. I appreciate it that you thought it through and didn’t just react to your gut.” His smile fell away as he added almost wistfully, “Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if we’d met at another time…” He looked away without finishing the sentence, but he didn’t have to.

I didn’t allow myself to finish it, either, as that line of thought leads nowhere. I put it right out of my head, as I’m sure he did.

While Mr. Vanier wasn’t technically a client, I decided to put my bra back on for his impending arrival, though I didn’t bother with the slip. I managed reasonably well to focus on my work as the morning ticked by, though I must have looked at the clock a dozen times an hour as the hands edged their way toward our meeting with Mr. Vanier.

A little after eleven, I heard the familiar jingle as someone opened the outer door to our small building. A moment later, the office door opened and in came George Vanier, a slim man of medium height with sandy blond hair. If I didn’t know they’d gone to college together, I’d have said he was closer to twenty than thirty, with his round, baby face that I doubt he needs to shave more than once a week.

He took off his fedora and smiled at me. “Good morning, Olivia. Nice to see you again.” His voice was surprisingly deep for such a slight man.

I blushed as he hung his hat on one of the pegs by the door, now that I was aware he knew about Mr. Stevenson and me.

Mr. Stevenson appeared at the door of his office. “George, there you are. Glad you could make it.” He stepped into the room and the two men shook hands. I was getting antsier by the second. What in the world had I been thinking when I’d agreed to whatever Mr. Stevenson had in mind?

He glanced toward me. “Would you bring us some coffee?”

I was glad for the few minutes it took to get the coffee poured and the tray prepared. “Deep breaths,” I kept telling myself. “You can do this. Mr. Stevenson has faith in you. Don’t let him down.”

I was reasonably calm, at least on the outside, when I brought in the coffee tray. I poured for both men, but not for myself. I was edgy enough without a jolt of caffeine.

They were chatting away about some college buddy who had made good, and barely seemed to notice me, aside from nodding their thanks for the coffee.

I stood there uncertainly for a moment, wondering if I should take my seat on the couch beside Mr. Stevenson, or head back to my desk. “Um,” I finally ventured, feeling like an idiot.

They both looked expectantly at me. Mr. Stevenson glanced toward his friend and said wryly, “Patience is not her strong suit.” I could have smacked him. Then he continued, “Olivia. Show Mr. Vanier your pretty garters.”

I stood frozen in place. I had expected some kind of discussion of parameters, or at least something a little more introductory than that!

I looked from Mr. Stevenson to Mr. Vanier and back again. Mr. Vanier was grinning like a Cheshire cat, all teeth. Mr. Stevenson’s face was calm, though I could tell from the slight rise of his eyebrows that he was waiting, a trifle impatiently, for me to obey.

Submitting in front of a witness had seemed rather romantic when I’d been sitting at my desk, anticipating this moment. I had told myself the witnessing was kind of like marriage vows. Where a man and wife exchanged their vows in front of others as a testament to their commitment to one another, Mr. Stevenson and I had the chance to show the unique power of our unusual relationship to another person, and thereby validate it on a level that moved beyond just the two of us.

Trying to remember this lofty analysis, and not wanting to disappoint Mr. Stevenson, I reached for the hem of my dress and lifted it, pleased to note that my hands were not trembling, at least not obviously, though from my burning cheeks I knew I was red as a tomato.

Mr. Vanier gave a low whistle of male appreciation, showing none of the restraint I had become so used to with Mr. Stevenson. “Sensational,” he breathed. He glanced at Mr. Stevenson. “May I see more?”

“Certainly,” Mr. Stevenson replied calmly, his eyes fixed on me. “Remove your dress, Olivia.”

Just like that. Take off your clothes in front of this virtual stranger.

Thank goodness I was wearing my bra. Nevertheless, my first instinct was to refuse outright, as Mr. Stevenson had promised there’d be nothing sexual.

No, he hadn’t, the voice in my head that keeps track of legal minutiae replied. He said nothing overtly sexual directly involving Mr. Vanier. And after all, he was only asking me to stand there. I’d already shown the man my garters. This was just a matter of degree. In for a penny, in for a pound.

My eyes on the ground, I reached back to unhook my dress and then dragged the zipper slowly down my back. I stepped out of the dress and set it on a nearby chair. Though even my ears were blushing at that point, I stood my ground, chin lifted, hands at my sides. I had done Mr. Stevenson’s bidding with grace and self-control.

Mr. Vanier actually sighed. “Sheer perfection,” he breathed. And while I knew this was an overstatement, I felt ridiculously pleased. Three babies, but I still had my figure.

My self-satisfaction was short-lived, however, because then Mr. Stevenson said, “Now the brassiere.”

I glanced at Mr. Vanier. He was staring directly at me with an expression that reminded me of a hungry dog waiting to be tossed a bone. His hand had dropped down to his lap, covering the obvious bulge there.

I swallowed hard as I gathered my courage. Was I really prepared to bare my breasts for this man, however appreciative he might be? I looked directly at Mr. Stevenson, my mouth opening in protest, but I was stopped by his expression. It wasn’t forbidding or demanding. It was happy. He looked as a happy as a boy who’d won a prized baseball card. I understood then that this wasn’t just about testing me. He was delighted to show his friend that I belonged to him, and he was proud to possess me in this unusual way.

Suddenly, I desperately wanted to earn the pride he felt for me—for what we shared. I wanted to please him above all things. My hands were trembling, but I somehow managed to fumble with my bra hooks. I let my bra slip down my arms. There I stood, wearing only panties, stockings and heels. The air was cool against my nipples. Impulse overcame obedience and I covered my chest.

“Drop your arms, slave.”

Slave.

The word skipped right past my brain and settled in that warm, dark core of my essence. Feeling somehow calmer, I let my arms fall to my sides. I cast another glance at Mr. Vanier, who was leaning forward, his lips parted, a glazed look in his eyes.

Thank goodness, Mr. Stevenson stopped there with the forced striptease, because I honestly don’t think I could have removed my underwear. Instead, he said, “Go to the corner, Olivia,” his voice quiet but commanding. “Touch your forehead to the wall and assume the punishment position.”

Slowly I walked to the corner, my heart racing a mile a minute. I stopped a few feet in front of the wall and bent over at the waist. My legs felt like they were made of rubber, no bones to speak of. I was finding it hard to balance in my heels.

Mr. Stevenson must have noticed, because he said, “You may step out of your shoes.”

Thank goodness for small mercies.

I slipped them off and laced my fingers behind my head as Mr. Stevenson had taught me, my legs parted, my bottom thrust out. I felt incredibly vulnerable and exposed, far more so than when it was just us two, but also deeply excited, so much so that I had trouble catching my breath.

Behind me, Mr. Stevenson said, “My slave girl sometimes requires a good spanking. I reserve the ruler for punishments, but I like to use my hand for training. It reminds her of her place.”

Oh. My. God.

I was glad I was facing away from the men, because my face was so hot you could have fried an egg on it.

“She’s got a great ass, James,” Mr. Vanier replied. “You are one lucky devil. Think I could give it a try?”

“Certainly,” Mr. Stevenson replied, calm as you please. “I’ll get her warmed up for you.”

I very nearly dropped my arms and bolted out of there. This wasn’t part of the deal. I wasn’t supposed to have to do anything overtly sexual with Mr. Vanier. But then, one could argue that a spanking wasn’t overtly sexual.

As I engaged in this internal debate, Mr. Stevenson came up behind me. He leaned close to my ear, and I could smell his warm, comforting scent. “Courage,” he said softly. “You’re doing beautifully. I have never been prouder in my life.”

His words both thrilled and calmed me. I gave a small nod. I could do this. I would earn his pride.

He took a step back and I tensed in anticipation. The first smack was quite hard, the sound ringing in the room. I gasped but held my position, keenly aware Mr. Vanier was watching. He alternated cheeks, hard as you like, until I was panting, my bottom on fire, my sex too.

After about ten swats, he took a step back. “Would you care to continue? She can take quite a bit.”

“Boy, would I,” Mr. Vanier said enthusiastically. “I’d like her over my lap. Would that be all right, do you think?”

Mr. Stevenson leaned close to me and said softly, “Would you permit that, Olivia? It’s beyond the parameters of our original agreement. I’ll only allow it if you are comfortable with that.”

I guess I was so surprised at being asked my permission that I replied, “Yes, that would be okay, Sir.” Not to mention, my arms were growing tired, and my forehead kept slipping against the wall.

“Excellent. You may lower your arms and turn around.”

He turned to Mr. Vanier. “Olivia has given her consent to that arrangement.”

Mr. Vanier lifted his eyebrows. “Consent? I thought she was your slave.”

“Within specific parameters, yes. It is a voluntary exchange of power, negotiated in advance. I’m sure you understand, given the nature of our, uh, external situations.”

“Right, of course,” Mr. Vanier agreed, trying to affect a sober expression, though I could see he was eager as a schoolboy to get his chance.

As Mr. Vanier moved from his chair to the couch, Mr. Stevenson led me over to him as if I were made of china and helped me drape myself over his friend’s lap.

Mr. Vanier stroked me, his hand warm and damp over my panties. I believe he was even more nervous than I. He smacked me in a playful way at first, but soon was striking me harder, his breath coming in quick, excited spurts, his erection hard as a rock beneath me.

My flesh was already tender from Mr. Stevenson’s spanking, and soon I was squirming on Mr. Vanier’s lap, unable to stay still as he struck me harder and harder. I began to gasp, small, yelping sounds with each smack.

Then his hand strayed down between my legs, which had fallen apart during the spanking. I slammed them together, completely pulled out of the moment by his presumption.

“That’s enough now, George,” Mr. Stevenson said abruptly, obviously having witnessed what he’d done. “Olivia’s had enough.”

Mr. Vanier’s hands fell away, and I stood, rather too quickly. The blood rushed from my head, and I swayed, black spots in front of my eyes for a few seconds.

Mr. Stevenson’s strong arms came around me. “You were wonderful,” he said softly. “Take your things and get dressed. Then come back to us, dear. We’ll be waiting.”

More later, because the bus, unlike Mr. Stevenson, won’t wait.

~*~

Tess was sprawled across Ryan’s bed, eyes closed, one hand partially covering her face, her dark hair spread over the pillow. The coverlet had fallen away to reveal one perfect breast, the nipple a pretty pink against soft, creamy skin. A breeze from the open window ruffled the curtains. Tess shifted but didn’t wake.

Ryan liked watching her sleep, her face so peaceful in repose. His cock stirred at the memory of last night—of Tess, naked and bound in chains, completely at his mercy, her eyes closed, her lips parted and glistening, her body covered in a sheen of sweat, her nipples dark red and engorged. He could almost hear her sweet, sexy moans as the leather lashed against her flesh.

The raw, dominant power coursing through his blood as he’d flogged her still resonated through his being. She had given herself completely to the situation—to him—in a way that left no room for doubt. She was born for this, as was he.

He’d been cautious at first, afraid of hurting her, of moving too quickly from pleasure to erotic pain. Though he loved what they were exploring together, it was new for him, too. But she had led him, in her quiet and sexy way, giving clear cues that she wanted what he was offering. The sex afterward had been explosive—more powerful than anything he’d known in his life. The flogging had been extended foreplay, and the thrill and intensity of the experience had opened his eyes to what true lovemaking could be.

And it was just the beginning.

He slipped from the bed and washed up in the bathroom, moving quietly so as not to disturb her. When he came back out, she was still fast asleep. He stood a while longer, admiring the lovely, sleeping girl, until his need for coffee got the better of him. In the kitchen, as he measured the beans and ground them, he lost himself in pleasant daydreams.

Until Tess had entered his life, Ryan had sometimes wondered if there was anyone out there for him. In the past, his relationships seemed to take two steps forward, and then one step back. When there started to be more backward progress than forward, one or the other of them would eventually call it quits. While he’d loved these other women, something had always been missing. In his heart of hearts, or no, more accurately, in his soul of souls, he’d been waiting for “the one.”

With Tess, there had been no false moves between them. The trust had been immediate and profound. For the first time, he understood on a gut level what a soul mate really meant. He was always learning something new and wonderful when he was with her, not only about her, but about himself. He loved her optimism and her zest for experience. Most of all, he loved her passion and her trust as they moved together deeper into BDSM.

Ryan was shaken out of his reverie by the sound of the garage door opening. What the hell? Peter wasn’t due back until the next day. Ryan panicked for a moment, thinking of the chains still hanging from the ceiling in the exercise room, the flogger lying where it had been dropped.

The door from the garage opened, and Peter stepped into the kitchen. “Surprise,” he said with a grin. “I’m back early.” Peter, who stood at six-foot five, was long-limbed and narrow. He sometimes reminded Ryan of a praying mantis, especially when he unfolded himself from a chair or car that was too small for him.

“What’re you doing here?” Ryan blurted. “You weren’t due back until tomorrow.”

“Hey, it’s great to see you too, pal.” Peter’s grin fell away as he added, “The trip was a bust and I called it quits. The prospective clients had no business plan and no clear idea of what they were doing. Worse, I suspect some book cooking.” Peter was a venture capital guy who found promising companies and helped them package themselves to get loans and capital. He was doing well now and had plans to move out soon and get a place of his own.

“Anyway”—he shrugged his overnight bag off his shoulder—“I’m hungry. What you got there?” He shook his head dismissively when Ryan held up a loaf of bread. “I need food, buddy. I’ll make some pancakes. You up for that?”

Ryan, who was always up for Peter’s cooking, said eagerly, “You bet.”

Peter leaned into the refrigerator and pulled out milk and eggs. “Ah, and these strawberries should do nicely.”

“Tess is here,” Ryan said. “She should be up soon, so make enough for her.”

Peter swung around to grin at him. “So you finally brought her home, huh? Must be serious. I can’t wait to meet her. I’m glad to hear she eats pancakes. Does she have a sister?” Peter’s girlfriend was on a constant diet, a source of frustration for Peter, who was a gourmet cook.

“I’ll go see if she’s up.” Ryan made a quick detour to grab the flogger and spreader bar from the exercise room. Maybe Peter, who didn’t go into that room much, wouldn’t notice the chains, and if he did, so what. It was Ryan’s house, after all. He could do as he liked.

Tess was in the shower, and he warned her Peter had come back early. “He’s making strawberry pancakes, though, so I told him I wouldn’t kill him.”

“As long as there’s real maple syrup, oh, and some bacon, I guess it’s okay,” Tess said with a laugh.

“I’ll go make sure,” Ryan said, his heart swelling with love.